


britain's most powerful sorcerer (or so he claims)

by gaysandcrime



Series: The Hogwarts Painter (and the five important portraits she painted) [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 10th Century, 11th Century, Blood Magic, F/M, Hogwarts Founders Era, Hogwarts History, Magical Painting, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Philosophy, Politics, Pureblood Culture, The Picture of Dorian Gray Elements, blood purity discourse, first person POV, much history was harmed in the making of this story, part 1 of a series, sorry for butchering history so badly to serve my purpose
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-03-25 00:15:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13822443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaysandcrime/pseuds/gaysandcrime
Summary: Salazar Slytherin wants an artist but gets a student. Marsilia Harcourt wants a teacher but gets a husband.Nobody asks what Hogwarts wants, but she gets a Headmistress just the same.





	britain's most powerful sorcerer (or so he claims)

**Author's Note:**

> I've taken way too many liberties with history and I know it. Please don't kill me for it, and if you care about 10th and 11th century history, you probably shouldn't read this story. Otherwise, go ahead and have fun!

britain's most powerful sorcerer (or so he claims)

**[circa. 1000]**

In the early years after the building of Hogwarts, Salazar Slytherin decides that he wants a portrait of himself to hang on his office wall, above the fireplace. He spends months searching for someone skilled enough, pure enough, and most importantly _quick_ enough to paint his portrait. He is an impatient man and he does not want to have to wait in an uncomfortable pose for more than an hour.

His collegues can't help protesting at this. "Salazar, be reasonable! No one can paint an entire portrait in an hour!" Helga says, but Salazar ignores her. If he wants it done in an hour, then it will bloody well be done in an hour!

Rowena, not bothering to look up from her book, states, "Magical painting is a dying art these days, I'm afraid. You'd be better served trying to do it yourself." Salazar ignores this too. After all, there are plenty of magical paintings around; surely there must be _someone_ who knows how?

It's only Godric's point that he concedes to, though he swears on his mother's grave that he will never tell a soul about it. "And as far as I know, Sal, there are no pureblood painters on the continent. It'll have to be a half-blood or muggleborn."

So it's with this advice in mind that he decides to visit England.

This is where the story begins.

+

"Marsilia, look at that man! How terribly striking he is. It's not often you see such interest in art from a man." Elizabeth Bletchley taps my elbow with her hand and turns me around. "What intrigue! What mystery! Shall we go introduce ourselves?"

I cannot speak, because my tongue is now glued to the top of my mouth. The man is indeed striking, somehow exotic and incredibly English looking all at once. He's wearing robes like one of the Royal family, and yet they are in colours I've never seen in association with the Royal family before in my life. He turns slightly, and suddenly he's looking into my eyes, possibly my very soul. I cannot move, now, as well as being unable to speak.

He moves towards us and Beth grasps my arm tightly in excitment. "Oh look," she whispers into my ear, "he's coming over!" And then he's here, and she's laughing charmingly and smiling at him, flutterring her lashes and asking him all sorts of questions. I can hardly breath for this feeling inside of me, like he's the sun and I'm a moth, helpless to the pull.

The feeling stops the moment he turns his eyes away, and I nearly fall back with the shock. I steady myself, and if I'm careful, I can feel the buzz in the air surrounding him. That is when I know the truth, and suddenly my fixation no longer seems harmless or proper.

"Excuse me," I say, my voice hardly polite the way it should be when speaking with a stranger.

He ignores me. I think about the fact that Beth is right next to me and is sure to be incredibly scandalized at what I am about to do.

I do it anyways.

"Excuse me, sir!" I say, and as I am stepping around him I stomp as hard on his foot as possible. His cry is satisfying to hear, and I smirk as I make my way outside, knowing that he will follow me, if for no other reason than to get me back.

I wait outside, quickly melting into the shadows as both he and Beth exit.

"Oh, no! Where on earth could she have gone? Marsilia? Marsilia!" she cries, and I feel momentarily guilty for decieving her this way. Not that I haven't decieved her in a thousand other ways, but still, she doesn't deserve this. "Oh my, I must find her! I'm terribly sorry to have to leave you, sir, and I apologize for my friend, but I must be going. Goodbye!" And at that, she is gone. I let out a sigh and the man spins in my direction.

"You!" His voice is a growl, and as his fingers twitch I know he's wanting to draw his wand. I cluck my tongue and step out of the shadows.

"You should get better control of your temper," I say, tilting my head to the side. I narrow my eyes and glare at him. "And maybe don't use legilimancy on people without their permission."

Hie eyes grow wide and a feeling of satisfaction rises up inside of me.

"You know who I am?"

"I know what you are, and that is enough. If you ever try to use magic on me again I promise you that you will not like the results."

He is suddenly laughing uproariously, and I blink my eyes, furious at his sudden change of temper and wondering if he might not be a bit unstable to be able to switch from anger to laughter so quickly. Perhaps he is a Black?

"You are most amusing," he says, grinning at me. My glare darkens and he shrugs. "I am Salazar Slytherin, the most powerful sorcerer on the continent. I doubt you could scratch me." He smiles pleasantly, which just makes my anger worse, and I finger the wand tucked into my sleeve and wonder if cursing him is worth the fuss it would make with the crowd surrounding us.

I decide it is.

I step over his prone, bleeding body daintily, lifting my skirts so as not to stain them with his blood. He groans and rolls slightly to his left until he is facing me. I smirk at him the moment he opens his eyes.

"I do not like it when people try and read my thoughts. I also do not like it when someone thinks they are better than me without any proof." I soften my smirk into a smile and reach out a hand to help him up. When he foolishly takes it, I lift him closer to my face and whisper in his ear, "I told you that you would not like the outcome. The next time you insult me, I will cut you open until your entrails are hanging out and tie you up for the birds to eat." I drop him back to the ground and leave him there.

The moment I turn the corner, however, I duck into an alleyway and cover my mouth with my hand, to stop myself from laughing. I just bested Salazar Slytherin with a single spell, and stomped on his foot! Goodness me, that is the most fun I've had in ages. I sigh as soon as my laughter fades away, and wait until I hear the crack of apparition before leaving the alley and making my way back home.

+

I am just finishing up my latest painting, when my mother comes into the room with a look of uncertainty on her face. "Marsilia, there's a man calling for you, he said you'd know him?" She's holding a white calling card in her left hand and something else bunched in her right. I put my painbrush down and she hands me both things immediately.

I read the card first. 'For the wonderful Miss Harcourt, with all of my gratitude, SS'

It's illuminating and dreadfully vague all at once, and I think I understand my mother's trepedition. I sigh and smile at her to let her know that it's fine. And then I look down at the other item.

A formerly pristine hankerchief of white silk, marred by a red bloodstain in the shape of a heart. How very subtle.

I sigh again and stand, wondering if he'd charmed the fabric to appear normal to Muggles or not. A glance at my mother's ashen face answers that question for me, and as I walk past her I make sure she won't remember a thing about the entire encounter. No wonder she'd come in looking so strange.

"Miss Harcourt," he says graciously, standing the moment I appear at the top of the staircase. "What a pleasure to see you. I hope you recieved my gift?"

I glance down at the hankerchief in my hands and try not to smirk. "I hardly think a hankerchief soaked with goats blood is much of a gift." I let the white cloth fall to the floor the moment I step off the staircase. "However, I'm sure that is not the only reason you came. I find myself desiring a walk in the garden. Come." It amuses me to treat him like a dog or a servant, and so I do. He deserves no less for thinking he can gift me a hankerchief stained with blood and get away with it.

"You are incredibly astute, Miss Harcourt. You are also difficult to find."

"I make a habit of staying hidden, sir. In both worlds." He raises an eyebrow at this and I can't help but clarify. "Elizabeth Bletchley knows nothing about me but my first name. The wizarding community knows not even that much."

His eyebrows somehow manage to rise even higher, and I'm afraid that if I shock him any more, they'll disappear into his hairline never to be seen again. "You are a mystery, Miss Harcourt."

I smile and sit upon a bench in the garden, patting the seat beside me in invitation. "I must admit, Lord Slytherin, I was quite sure you'd came here to punish me," I think about our last encounter when I'd cursed him so spectacularly, and can't stop myself from laughing. "Now I realise that my actions probably made you more intrigued than angry. I find myself pleased with the outcome."

He doesn't look at me when he says, "Oh no, Miss Harcourt. I was very angry. But my anger is not as long lasting as it could be, and you are right that I began to admire your actions after my anger wore off."

It is my turn to raise my eyebrows. "Admire? You would admire someone who would humiliate you? And a woman, at that?"

"Yes. Women are just as formidable as men, Miss Harcourt. If you were a greater part of wizarding society, you would know that the point of view you are expressing is restricted to Muggles and Muggle society only. It is one of the ways Muggles are fundamentally flawed."

I scoff. "You are saying that witches are as valued in your society as wizards? I find that hard to believe, sir, when I know for a fact that nearly ninety percent of the jobs offered in the community are held by men, and that women are generally slotted into positions such as seamstress, miliner, teacher or Merlin forbid, housewife." I might not be a very active part of that society, but no one could tell such a blatant lie and have me believe them. I am isolated, not an idiot. "I applaud your effort to mislead me, however. Next time you want to insult Muggles, come up with something better."

Instead of the frustration I'm expecting, he grins at me and chuckles. "Ah, Miss Harcourt! Truly you are the most astounding witch. Yes, you are correct of course. Although I do wish you would call it _our_ society, as it cannot be mine when you too are of magical descent."

Oh. I see. I pause for a moment and let the silence between us stretch on and on as I try and figure out how to correct him without coming off as offended, which I'm not. I finally decide that frank honesty is the only way to go.

"Sir," I say, and knowing his reputation, I am prepared for a very negative reaction. "Sir, I am not of magical descent."

His thick eyebrows bunch together. "I beg your pardon, Miss Harcourt? Are you not a witch?" I can tell he is mocking me, and any other day this would make me furious enough to hex him. Now though, knowing that the moment he realises the truth he will want to put as much space between us as possible, it just makes me sad.

"By my own definition, yes. By yours, no."

His face becomes more confused and I can't help but hate him for making me say the words out loud. How terribly vulgar, not to mention degrading.

"I am a mudblood. My parents are Muggles. Sir." I refuse to look at him, and I know it will seem as though I am ashamed, although I am not. It has more to do with an unwillingness to see his disgust than any shame on my own part.

There is a moment of silence after this declaration where I wonder if he'll stay, despite it all. I find him vexing, yes, but also the most intriguing person I've yet to meet. Never have I had such fun, and I am not looking forward to losing it.

So when I hear the quiet crack of him apparating away, it's all I can do not to sigh in defeat and go back inside to my painting. The hankerchief is still laying on the floor where I'd left it, and I pick it up and tuck it into my sleeve. It made me mad earlier, but now I can't help but want to keep it. It might be the last thing I ever get from the man.

+

A year or so passes where I am left alone, studying magic independantly as there is no one in the family who can teach me, and the magical schools are all fairly new and accept only children. I am sitting at a park bench reading, when I feel someone's gaze and look up.

He is standing there, somehow looking like he belongs despite the fact that it is a Muggle park, filled with Muggles and their pets. It only just now occurs to me that every time we've met it has been in the most Muggle of places, and I can't help but wonder if he's truly as anti-Muggle as the rumours say.

But then I remember how quick he was to abandon our conversation in the rose garden, and brush such an idiotic thought aside. I choose to ignore him and continue reading my book; if he wants to converse with a lowly Mudblood like me, he's going to have to apologize.

"Miss Harcourt."

I ignore him as thouroughly as I've ever ignored anything. I turn the page.

"Miss Harcourt, I am speaking to you."

Hmm. How fascinating. I never knew that magical art history could be so interesting.

"Marsilia!" His voice is a furious whisper, but it's the fact that he's used my given name that causes me to look at him.

"I did not give you permission to call me that, Lord Slytherin. I do not take liberties with your name, and you shall not take liberties with mine." My voice matches his fury, although I am not whispering in the slightest. "Now, if you could kindly leave me be? I am trying to study." I turn back to my book and have to stifle my amusement when I see him stomp his foot. What is he, a child?

"How immature," I mumble as I turn the page, and am not surprised when the book is ripped from my hands. I sigh and tilt my head up to look at him. His face is as furious as his voice.

"Miss. Harcourt." he hisses, before sitting down forcefully next to me. "I do not appreciate being ignored."

I can hardly believe his nerve! "Well, I don't appreciate being rudely interrupted!" I glare at him a bit before saying, "And I _really_ don't appreciate being _abandoned_ in conversation just because _someone doesn't think I'm a proper witch!"_ I have to mentally stop myself from screaming, but I think the full power of my anger still manages to get through to him, as he seems a bit wary after my outburst. I'm practically out of breath, so much energy and force was put into my words that the next time I speak I am panting. "I don't care what you think of me and my kind, Lord Slytherin, but the facts speak for themselves! I have already bested you with magic, and you yourself have spoken of my intellect, so I find it disingenuous of you to decide none of that matters when you find out that my parents are Muggles." If I was still holding that book, I'm pretty sure I'd thump him with it.

"Marsi- Miss Harcourt," he says, quickly correcting himself when I glare at him, "I know that you are angry with me. I understand, and I must admit that my behaviour all those months ago was quite deplorable. What you must think of me!" he sighs, rather dramatically in my opinion. "You have my most sincere apology for the interruption, as well as my abandonment of you last year. Will you forgive me?"

I am quite speechless. He has just apologized to me - _twice-_ and is now asking me to forgive him! Me, a muggleborn! It seems all a bit too good to be true, and I find myself rather suspiscious.

"I think what you are is a blood purist, sir, and I'll accept your apology when you've proven to me that you are not blantantly lying to my face."

He sighs. "I do not know how to prove that to you, Miss Harcourt, but I shall do my best." He glances down at my book still in his hands and pauses. "Art history? Are you interested in art, Miss Harcourt?"

A bit baffled by the abrupt change in conversation, I flounder for an answer. "Interested? Yes, quite a bit. I'm a painter, you see. Or, well, hoping to be. I have yet to be recognized, and of course I still have much to learn."

"Really? How intriguing."

"I'm afraid I'm not quite certain what you mean, Lord Slytherin." Must he always be so terribly vague? What a vexing man!

"Oh, only that it's a bit of a strange coincidence, isn't it, Miss Harcourt? I have been searching these past few years for a magical painter, and you've been one all along."

This admittance immediately puts me on edge. "Are you saying that you did not know I painted until just now? I find that hard to believe."

"Ah, but it is the truth, Miss Harcourt. Do you paint portraits?"

"It's about all I do paint, Lord Slytherin. I am still learning the intricacies of landscaping. And I do not believe in coincidences, I'm afraid." Despite my wariness I can't help but be drawn into any sort of conversation about art, and here he is engaging me in conversation not just about any art, but about _my_ art. I admit that I am charmed despite myself.

He smiles quickly and suddenly before standing up. "I don't believe in coincidences either, Miss Harcourt." He holds his arm out for me, and against my better judgement, I stand up and take it. "I would like to offer you a job."

This makes me pause. "A job?"

"Yes, a job. I would like to comission you for a portrait; magical, of course. To be done at Hogwarts."

Oh my! Here is the chance that I have been waiting for, the chance to paint a presitgious figure and earn my reputation! I cannot help the feeling of excitement which takes me over, and I have to admit that a large portion of it is due to the thought of being at Hogwarts.

I decide then and there what I want from him in return. "I will accept, of course I will. For the right price."

I expect him to refuse me my demands, and am pleasantly mistaken. "Of course, I wouldn't dream of it otherwise. Name your price, and I will have the sum transferred into your account."

A smile crosses my lips before I say, "No gold, Lord Slytherin. My price...lessons at Hogwarts. With you." I detatch myself from him where he now stands frozen on the grass, and I turn to walk away.

"Wait! Miss Harcourt!" His voice is distant when it reaches my ears, but I do not turn.

"You can send me your answer in the mail when you have decided, Lord Slytherin. Until then," and with that I apparate away, feeling immensely satisfied with myself and knowing that when his answer comes by owl it will be what I want to hear.

 


End file.
